Constellation
by Stratocruiser
Summary: A mysterious plane leaps out of urban legend and comes to life in a small South Carolina town. Can Monica and John unlock its mystery? And will they ultimately save themselves? DRR.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: 20th Century Fox owns every character you recognize. Post "Audrey Pauley", pre "The End". **_

**Prologue**

**XXXXXX**

**March 30, 2002**

**Pawley's Island, South Carolina**

The cemetary sat tucked under a canopy of cyprus trees, with wisps of Spanish moss blowing in the wind. Flowers were blooming in the swampy soil. The daffodils waved in the warm wind that blew through the crooked tombstones. They resembled rotten teeth sticking up out of the landscape and some were completely off-kilter, knocked off their bases by the hurricanes of 200 years. They were all illuminated in a sleepy light that cast rays on the ground and shadows around the ancient trees.

Midge Kiser spent most of her weekend in the small cemetary. Every March, there was another project out here to keep her busy. This year, in the spirit of patriotism, she had repainted all the Confederate grave markers. Now she was busy replacing them next to the little fluttering rebel flags that dotted the soft ground. It was getting harder to stoop over at her advanced age, but she dutifully wiped the sweat out of her eyes and kept on working.

The church that stood here was long gone, but she could remember seeing its picture in a history book. All that remained of these people were tombstones some with screwball inscriptions.

_Pinckley Ripplicutt, Age 62, Dragged From a Horse, His Foot in the Stirrup 1801._

Frogs croaked. Huge butterflies wafted about, landing on the trees and tombstones. It was about the most peaceful place on earth. Midge could understand why people had wanted to be buried there. There was nothing to hear but the sea.

But there was a hum. Small planes often buzzed this part of the island. They were full of vacationers wanting to see the wilder side of things. It sort of disrupted the melancholy mood of the cemetary.

The engine sound was louder now. Midge looked up, expectantly, waiting to see the little Cessna or whatever it was cruise overhead. She shielded her eyes against the gorgeous sun but couldn't spot the plane. All the frogs stopped making noise and the butterflies were nowhere to be seen.

Just as she was about to turn around and pay some attention to another grave (_Angels Spread Their Silvery Wings and Cast Me Asunder 1845) _a dark shadow passed. It was accompanied by a sputtering noise. Midge stood up quickly, gasping at the huge form that was blocking the sunlight. It was shaped like a blunt cross with three bumps on its end.

It _couldn't _be, she thought. They never -

"Fly Easte..."

She never finished what she was saying. Something fell from the sky in a rush of air and knocked her over. She hit her head on the stone she was tending and died with a trowel in one hand and the other still pointed heavenward at whatever had crossed the sky. A butterfly landed on her outstretched hand, its yellow wings beating against the wind.


	2. Chapter 2

**April 2, 2002**

**South Carolina State Road 626**

"Ghost plane. You know, you think you've heard them all, but this absolutely takes the cake, huh?'

Monica Reyes simply shrugged and continued staring out the window. The scenery whipped by...the old mansions, shotgun shacks and the gas stations with one teetering pump. The rented Taurus bobbled up and down over potholes and puddles. They seemed to be the only people heading anywhere. There hadn't been another car near them for miles in either direction.

"I've never been down here before. It's kind of nice, I guess."

They passed a trailer park with a number of late-model Camaros up on blocks. A few months ago, Monica would have smiled at this. She just kept staring, expressionless.

John Doggett had noticed a change in his partner even before her car accident. That beguiling smile had begun to fade. Then, after the accident, all the light was gone from her eyes. Now she was a shell of her former shelf, too skinny and too pale.

John knew he wasn't in good shape, either. The past six months had really taken their toll on his body. There always seemed to be a new crop of scars. His clothes were too big. He wondered if she even noticed this. Sometimes they'd lock eyes and know what the other was thinking. John had no psychic gifts. Maybe, he thought, it's rubbing off a little. But Monica didn't seem to see...or want to see...the way they were both changing.

"Want the rest of this?" He waved the rest of an ice cream cone in her face and felt an inward smile when she accepted it wordlessly. Their fingertips touched for a long moment. His were sticky with dripped ice cream. Monica blinked and turned back toward the window, impassively licking the dripping vanilla.

She didn't say anything until they were on the ferry. They leaned against the car shoulder to shoulder and watched the gulls swoop around the deck.

"Trashbirds," she said as one flew by with a french fry container in its beak.

John squinted at her and turned his attention back to the birds. This was the kind of case she liked. Maybe the sun and the salt water would do her good. It had to. Just getting out of DC could even be the cure. Scully had become Monica's friend in an odd way, but Dana wasn't a picnic to be around. You don't exactly "hang out" with Scully, who cut people up for a living. Morose, silent Scully, so beautful but so tragic.

A lightbulb went off in John's brain. _She's turning into Scully._ But even she had said once that Monica was more like Mulder. Monica just looked tired now, sunglasses barely hiding the deep, dark circles under her eyes.

John pulled her into his arms. Monica laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He noticed how her body had transformed into a series of gaunt right angles. "You okay?" he asked, letting his chin rest on her head.

"No, I'm not," she said. At least John knew she wasn't lying. Monica sighed as the wind whipped her hair into cowlicks. A large purple bruise ran down the side of her arm. John traced the bruise with his fingertips.

"Neither am I," he said, wishing they could be free of the borders the FBI placed on them. His heart was held intact by her; they had never even kissed.

**Pawley's Island Police Station**

The young policeman was visibly cowed by the FBI's presence. When they walked in, he stashed the Mountain Dew and Cheetos he was eating under a desk and busily wiped the crumbs from the front of his rumpled blue uniform. The station was nothing but a little Quonset hut, really, sitting on stilts in the middle of a swamp.

"I dunno how it happened," he said in a thick accent. "All I know is, we found this at her feet."

It was a black satchel, speckled with mud. Monica snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and zipped it open. She inspected it with a flashlight before dumping it on a desk. A wallet, a compact, a pair of sunglasses and a ticket spilled out. They all squinted at the stuff as if the seemingly ordinary items had come from Mars.

"It didn't have Mrs. Kiser's prints. Nothing had her prints in that bag and we didn't find her with gloves on," Corporal Mosby frowned.

"This ticket's for 1952," Monica said, fingering its corner. Mosby just nodded. They all stood quietly for a moment until John popped the wallet open and frowned at what he saw.

"I hope this is some sort of joke. Cause if it isn't, I won't know what to think."

He held out a driver's license. "Myrtle Kramer, expires 1954. Residence 1664 Rockaway Boulevard, Queens, New York."

Monica's brow furrowed. She took the driver's license and stared at it, looking for any evidence it could be a fake.

"Eastern flight 2012 crashed in 1952. Miss Kramer was on the passenger manifest," Mosby said quietly. "That's why I called you both out here. They never found the plane but most folks figured it went down in the ocean. The families had to bury empty coffins."

"Like I said, I really hope this is some joke," John repeated. The other contents of the wallet added up to exactly twenty dollars and ten cents.

"Lots of people here on the island reported hearing the plane go over and it was making a sputtering sound. No one heard it crash. It just seemed to pass over and the sound just faded away," said Mosby.

"So they never found anything from the plane? Normally something floats to the surface," Monica asked. Mosby just shook his head sadly.

"It just went away and took 60 people with it. Or they just kept flying."

Monica and John looked at each other and winced.

**Salem Church Cemetary**

"I still say she could have brought it out here with her," Monica sighed, crouching in front of the stone that dealt Midge the fatal blow. The daffodils surrounding it were stained with blood.

"At least they didn't have to take her far." John was by the newly-dug grave, batting at the butterflies that were dive-bombing the flowers. The air was saturated with a swampy smell of decay. "No way carry-ons just fall from the sky. It looked too new to fall out of a tree."

"Well, if we were closer to the Bermuda triangle...," Monica began, but quickly broke off. A breeze was beginning to blow, rustling the trees. "If there is such a thing as ghosts, John, they'd be here."

"These tombstones are enough to convince me," he said, squinting at an inscription. _As I am, so you will be, May Higgins, 1889._

Monica, who had done tombstone rubbings in her youth, ran her fingers across the stone. "In New Orleans, a guy named Moriarity's wife died and he put four statues around her grave. They represent faith, hope, charity and Mrs. Moriarity."

"You miss New Orleans any?"

"Sometimes," she smiled.

A black dog wandered into the cemetary. John instinctively backed up, but Monica approached it.

"The dawg's friendly. He just gets a little excited sometimes," called a voice. A little old man was shuffling down the path through the cyprus trees. "You must be the FBI. I'm John Byrnes. Lived here all my life."

"Mr. Byrnes, do you remember the night that Eastern Airlines plane crashed?" Monica asked, scratching the dog's ears. It whined and collapsed on her feet.

"Sure do. It was clear as a bell out here. You could even see the plane's outline as it went overhead. We saw those Connies come over all the time, but this one sounded different, like a hundred Volkswagon bugs starting at once. My gramma called me outside because even she knew it just didn't sound right. We heard about what happened the next day. I went out and rowed all over the place, all through the inlets and sandbars hoping to find something. Nothing ever did turn up."

"Did you know Mrs. Kiser?" asked John. The high whine of a Cessna passed overhead and they all looked up, searching the sky. It skimmed among the clouds, steel skin glinting in the mellow spring sun.

"Well, this is a small place," said Byrnes. "I knew her my whole life. She was the sweetest thing on earth. I hate the fact she died out here. I think of her death as a sign from God, I really do."

"How do you mean?"

"That suitcase came from that airplane. Someone's trying to tell us something. Like that," he said, pointing to the tombstone that took Midge Kiser's life.

_Angels Spread Their Silvery Wings and Cast Me Asunder _

**7:05 PM**

**Cottage Grove Inn**

The porch was nearly silent, save for the sound of two tops popping. The Inn overlooked the ocean. John never forgot what the sky looked like that night. The stars twinkled beyond the purple dusk, streaked with bands of pink. This felt like a vacation and it very well could be but John was scanning the sky for a lost Constellation, buzzing the coast for its last time.

"You're looking for it, aren't you," Monica said in sleepy, dreamy voice. She was starting to relax as the beer kicked in.

"I don't think I'll find it. You're probably right...the lady brought out that bag."

"After all we've seen, though, I can't quite explain it away. So it's a sign. I think it's almost comforting that part of us goes on even though, in a physical sense, we're gone," Monica said, taking a long sip. "When I was in the hospital, part of me knew you were there, John. I don't remember much, but I did feel a strong force telling me to fight. It was your voice, your soul even, that pulled me back fromthe edge of wherever."

John felt his cheeks turn red. She _knew_. That time had been terrible for him. Scully had been sympathetic but it was obvious she was a veteran of these touch-and-go situations. For John, there had been Luke, and those wounds were still so raw. He just couldn't lose anyone else so soon.

"I'm a big believer in absolution, Monica. You know that," he said, not really going in any type of direction. "And if there's something freaky attached to that old puddle jumper, then I want those people on board to have their chance to rest. Fifty years is a long time to wait."

She got up, bumping around. "I'm going to turn in," Monica said. When she passed John, she grabbed his hand and squeezed. When she dropped her grip and kept on walking, John's eyes followed her dim figure down the porch to her room. The door shut and the light inside went out.

John cracked open another beer, still watching the skies but still thinking of Monica laying in that hospital bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Monica was raring to go the next morning. She woke John up at six and then provided breakfast in the car...six Hostess powdered donuts and a can of orange juice.

"Monica, you spoil me," John laughed, not really in a sarcastic manner. Sometimes she could be a real granola-type, always pushing apples and power bars on him. It was when she was unguarded and loose that Monica made entire pizzas disappear. Three beers weren't enough to sink her, either. When you reached five, though, she loosened up considerably.

They'd only been severely drunk together once. Drunk for Monica meant Mary Poppins songs and tripping over cobblestones. She insisted on playing piano at John's house. It was severely out of tune, but she played all three songs in her repertiore. On the last note of "Jingle Bells", as if on cue, her head met the keys and it was all over. He dragged her to the couch and took her shoes off. She opened her eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. It was warm and inviting and it made John a little uncomfortable. The smile said volumes about her feelings. He just pinched one of her toes and smiled back before heading up to his own bed. This was before the accident happened. No telling what would happen between them if that happened now.

"So what?" she asked, breaking his train of thought.

"We're going to have to catch this plane, I guess. Even if it means spending the night in that cemetary."

This didn't daunt either of them. It was a spooky place, no doubt, but the air was warm and scented with the flowers that grew in and out of the tombstones. The sound of the water was soothing. It lulled John to sleep the night before.

The island was quiet and still that morning. No lights were on at the police station. Dragonflies splatted against the car's windshield, smearing into a viscous paste when the washer fluid and wipers hit them.

"Wonder what Scully's up to? Probably cleaning her apartment again. Everytime I go over there she'd vaccuuming or scrubbing. It's like she's trying to keep the place in order, because she can't keep her life in order. That's the way I see it," John said. The car crunched along the oyster shell road.

"There's something up ahead," Monica said quietly as they approached the churchyard. They squinted through the dirty window. Whatever it was, it was blocking the road. "I'm getting out."

John heaved the wheel to the side of the road and rolled to a stop. "It's huge, look at it!" he exclaimed.

Monica recognized it and took off running. She stopped short of the object, as if there was a force field surrounding the piece of mis-shapen metal. "It's a propellor, my God. And we missed it," she said angrily, looking up. John touched its smooth surface, fingering the gouges. It stuck up out of the ground, bent slightly towards the cloudless sky as if it was looking for the plane, too.

"Maybe it's a good thing we weren't out here, Mon. We could have been crushed. Thing must weigh a ton."

They walked to the graveyard, hoping more had fallen from the sky. Nothing was different there. Beads of dew sparkled on the flowers and gave grass a wet sheen. "Nope, nothing here but us chickens," Monica sighed. She swiped the moss off an ancient tombstone and ran her fingers along its worn letters, trying to deciper the date.

"If we stay out here, I get to chose the food," John said, rounding an ancient rose trellis. "And one of us has got to call the FAA to come get this thing."

"Right, right," Monica said, waving her hand at him impatiently. She just about had the epitaph figured out. _Mysteries cease, only us knowing, like waves we are floating._

"Sounds like a Carpenters lyric," John said. He was now standing directly over her.

"I kind of like it," Monica countered, standing up to meet him at eye level. "I keep getting the feeling those people on that plane are trying to tell us something or warn us about something."

"Been a bad time for all of us. What the hell would they be warning people about?"

"Warning us, John. You and me. You can't tell me you don't think things are about to change at the FBI. Scully's bound to hear from Mulder someday. Kersh will realize what we know, what we're trying to do. When all that happens we'll be stuck in the middle," Monica said. She seemed agitated. "Where will we be in a year?"

John looked on sympathetically but unconvinced. "I don't think this plane has anything to do with us. We're just here. Could have been anyone. Could have been Mulder and Scully. Sometimes fate has nothing to do with anything." There was no answer for her last question. Together, he hoped but didn't say out loud.

"Bullshit, John. It has everything to do with us. Ev - "

She stopped mid-word. There were suddenly thousands of huge yellow butterflies surrounding them. John could hear their wings beating against the still air. An odd feeling of peace and calm washed over him. It was like the last six months hadn't happened. Monica's face, usually furrowed with worry or fear, evened out. The sound of the fluttering wings grew louder.

_Do you take this woman - _

He was in a church. Monica was still beside him, but smiling now as the sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows. She was wearing white. Scully grinned from the front pew. She was sitting in a beam of colored light, all purple and gold and green. The scent of lilies and new mown grass filled the air wildly. All the other faces in the congregation were blurred, except one: Mulder was beside Scully, looking at her, saying something John couldn't make out over the minister's talking.

_What you call fate brought you - _

John blinked and was back in the cemetary. The butterflies all went straight up in the air and flew away in a giant yellow cloud over the treeline. Monica watched them disappear, and when she looked at him again her face was full of worried creases and valleys. John saw his own reflection in her watery eyes.

He didn't say anything else about fate for the rest of the day.

**1:30PM**

**Sooky's Shrimp Hut**

A flatbed carrying the propellor passed in front of the ramshackle seafood joint. Every head turned except for John and Monica. They were quickly dispensing of a pile of shrimp and a basket of hush puppies. Neither had said anything about the odd happening in the cemetary. There didn't really seem to be anything to say.

"Hey!"

Corporal Mosby sauntered over in full cop mode. His radio crackled with air traffic control chatter. "Word spread fast about that propellor. Seems like everyone's up at the old cemetary today."

"We'll be up there tonight," said Monica, stuffing a hush puppy in her mouth. Her hair was full of golden pollen, dulling its auburn tint.

"Y'all just be careful. Don't know what else might fall on top of you," Mosby smiled, snatching a shrimp. He ambled slowly through the rest of the restaurant, yelling back to the kitchen. They watched his cruiser pull away.

"It wouldn't be a bad place to live," John said. A speaker above them began to blare Ray Charles. "A person could get used to living at this pace."

"What, you want his job? John, all he does is write speeding tickets and fish on the taxpayer's dime."

John shrugged. That didn't seem so bad. Monica kept eating. The little stack of tails she had was growing by the minute. She almost didn't notice when a third person sat at their table. John Byrnes was drinking a coffee and stared expectantly at the two of them.

"It was a propellor. No on'e identified it as a Connie propellor, though. That's up to the FAA," Monica said, breaking the silence and shouting over the sounds of Ray's electric organ.

"You and I know what it is. The whole town's scared. I'm scared," Byrnes said.

"Why's that?"

Byrnes leaned forward. "All of us old folks...maybe we didn't look in the right places for this plane. We didn't try hard enough. I sailed all over the place, scanned the beaches, metal detected, everything. What if they were all just hurt bad and died and we never helped them? Now they're back to get us."

John leaned back in his chair, trying not to laugh. "I wouldn't go that far," he said with a half-smirk.

"Anyways," Byrnes said, getting up, "Just keep that in mind. Also, we're throwing a cookout tomorrow night if you'd like to come. It'll be at about six down at the old yellow house next to the cemetary turn-off."

"We'll be there," Monica smiled. "If the food's free, we're there." She nudged John under the table. He pinched her thigh.

**9:00PM**

**Salem Church Cemetary**

They brought everything in plastic bags. Monica had her Doritos, John was happy with his Gatorade and Oreos. There were wet wipes, Kleenex, bottles of water and blankets. They were prepared for any stakeout in New York or DC or the desert.

But there was no bug spray. The mosquitoes were out early and they were thirsty. It was so bad that they were already covered with bites by just getting everything out of the trunk. They sat in the front seat, itching and scratching and sweating miserably.

The moon hung fat that night and shone like daylight through the windshield. Monica was reading a magazine with a penlite, leaving John to recline his seat and close his eyes.

"John?"

"Yeah? What is it?"

"When we were out here this morning, did you have any sort of hallucination?"

John sat up and faced her. She was scratching the back of her neck with the penlite, belying her serious tone of voice. "Did you?" he asked cautiously.

"I thought for a moment I was at somebody's wedding. Dana was there. You were there."

He gulped, eyes going wide. Monica let her head fall against the back of the seat with a _thwap_.

"It was probably nothing. Sometimes I...never mind," she said.

The air in the car grew very still. It was like the moments they sat muddled by one another before the accident happened. John knew he had to break the silence, but didn't want to divulge his little secret. It just sat too close to his heart. What would she want with a man ten years her senior anyway? A man who had a face full of scars, a gimp knee and ears big enough to set sail by?

"I thought I was in a church for a second. The light was shining through the stained glass," John said, trying to smile. A thought occurred to him that maybe it was Salem Church, gone long ago back into the mists of the island. "Nice night."

"You can really see the moon out here," she said in a drowsy voice.

"Yeah," John said. Suddenly feeling bold, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Monica leaned into his half-embrace and moved closer, resting her head against his shoulder.

This was a revelation to John. His heart melted. It was scary and exhilarating at the same time. Things had never been this way with anyone else. Not with his ex, God bless her. This just felt so right. That just felt so routine.

She smelled like the flowers and the sea. John thanked God they still made cars with bench seats. He caressed the back of her neck while Monica smiled and scratched at a bite on her arm. This was the woman who laughed at his Ozzy impression and managed to get spaghetti sauce on her ceiling during a cooking binge. Sometimes she just knew things and this scared John. He didn't know much about her past and she knew everything about his. Now here she was, smiling shyly, practically sitting in his lap.

They waited and waited. The warm air made John drowsy. Monica was already asleep against his arm. His head dipped once, twice...and finally at three a.m. he gave in to the Sandman. Neither of them saw the dark shadow that hovered over the cemetary and flew off in the direction of the moon.


	4. Chapter 4

**April 4, 2002**

John woke up suddenly, confused about the unfamiliar surroundings. Soft light was in his eyes. A breeze flowed through the open car window, bringing in the salty smell of the ocean with it.

He looked down to see a mass of brown hair. Monica was still asleep and had shifted until she sat in his lap, curled into a little ball. You'd never imagine someone so gangly could be so compact. He could have stared at her all day, just marvelling at the pitch of her eyebrows and the way the corners of her mouth curled up. There was only one reason to wake her: John's legs had fallen asleep. So he nudged her slightly, getting a yawn in return. Monica opened her eyes and gave him a confused, gimlet gaze.

"Good morning, sunshine," he said with a slight smile. She leaned back to assess her situation and jumped so suddenly her head almost hit the roof of the car.

"John, I didn't mean to fall asleep like this," Monica sputtered. With a leap, moved quickly into the passenger's seat, eyes wide.

"S'ok, Mon. My legs are just asleep, that's all."

They got out of the car and walked around the cemetary stiff legged. There was a low ground fog that made the place a little spookier than it had been the day before. The angels seemed to leer from the tops of their weatherbeaten stones, as if they could read his thoughts. John grimaced as he paced around among them. Blood returned to his feet in needle-like sparks. Monica tried her morning meditation. She sat on a small bench and turned her palms upward, the mist swirling at her feet. A butterfly landed on her head and John watched its wings flutter as she tried to concentrate.

The urgent need to pee rocked his bent body, so he made his way to a clump of old box hedges. While relieving himself, he noticed something slightly out of place on the landscape. There was a color that didn't quite match up with anything else, high up in the trees above the mist. Zipping up (and just barely escaping a "There's Something About Mary" debacle) he made his way to a tall cyprus slowly, trying to make out what was hanging on an upper limb.

Monica was done with her meditation, so she wandered over just in time to see her partner testing out one of the tree's creeping lower limbs. It denied his weight with a splintering crack, leaving John earthbound once again. "Well, that's that," he said, looking up helplessly. It looked to be a piece of blue cloth waving in the wind.

"Maybe we could knock it down," offered Monica. They used rocks, sticks and dirt clods to try and free the piece of material. Half and hour later they were filthy and dizzy and had gotten nowhere. Monica sat defeatedly on a toppled headstone and John sunk to the ground on his haunches. Both of them knew what would have to happen next. Monica pulled out her cellphone with a sigh. Let the carnival begin.

Thirty minutes later the whole town was there. The fire department backed its ladder truck up to the tree and the chief rode up in the bucket, whistling "MacArthur Park" the whole time. He plucked the cloth from the limbs like a piece of fruit, and held it to his chest as the bucket lowered.

"Jesus H. Christ," said Chief Leonard when the bucket reached the ground and he got a good look at what was in his hands. He gave it to Monica, who blanched when she realized what it was. The crowd closed around her and let out a collective gasp. John even stepped back.

It was a mangled flight attendant's uniform, smeared with blood. The crowd looked up at the sky, but John couldn't take his eyes off the cemetary. The yellow butterflies were back in force. Monica was looking that way, too, shaking her head. Her mouth was drawn up like a bow, making her appear older than she actually was. She held the uniform in a white knuckle death grip and didn't acknowledge when John tried to prise the dress from her hands. The yellow mass swirled around the headstones, lifting up over the churchyard like a dustcloud. Off they went. John had a feeling he'd like to fly away with them.

"We need to get this tested," John whispered in her ear, watching the butterflies disappear over the treeline again. "I want to see that manifest again, too."

Old blood doesn't smear. New blood does. Monica had it all over her hands and clothes. The uniform was inside out, its hem torn. People started to back away from it, noticing the glistening patches of blood that dotted the fabric. Chief Leonard put a hand on his head, unable to speak. He remembered that night the plane disappeared; he'd been playing baseball on the beach when the Constellation flew overhead. They stayed out well past their bedtime looking for it. At eight years old, he tagged around with his older brother Latane until the pink dawn began to rise in the eastern sky. They never found a thing.

**10 AM**

They were quiet on the way back to the inn. Monica had blood smeared on one of her cheeks, like warpaint. She wanted to drive. John guessed it was a way to stay in control of the situation. It felt like it was slipping through their hands.

"Damn airplanes," he said aloud, mostly to himself. "Those poor people."

Monica shrugged. She looked thoughful for the rest of the ride and didn't say anything until they reached the inn's porch. Both sank into the same chairs they'd lounged in two nights before. A storm gathered in the distance. The water seethed with foaming whitecaps.

"There is really no agony of death, John," Monica sighed, catching her partner by surprise.

"What's that mean? These people didn't feel anything when they died?"

"What I mean is that the only agony surrounding death in most cases is for those it leaves behind."

John had an inkling this was true. He thought of Luke riding away on that bicycle. There were those dark days when he couldn't get out of bed...the steady stream of visitors...Monica and her dark theories...his former NYPD partner bawling at the funeral...the sound of engines seizing as the plane shudders and pitches violently downward, body and earth soon to become one again...

The rockers creaked on the wooden porch. John looked out at the churning water, tears glistening in his eyes. "I read in a book once that impact is so violent in some of these cases that the mind refuses it," Monica continued. "It's what happens in those last few seconds that no one will ever understand."

"You sound like Scully," John said, unable to look in her direction.

Monica's chair slid back. "I don't mean to. Anyways, I'm tired, John. You look like you could use some sleep, too." He felt her hand on his shoulder and covered it with his own. John was having a hard time pretending he wasn't completely in love with her.

"You're okay, right?" she asked, eyes searching deep into his. John just nodded. She began running her other hand through his hair. It was so soothing he closed his eyes and rested his head on her stomach.

If the last few seconds of his life could be like this, John could die a happy man.

**6PM**

Rested and showered, John felt like new. The storm had come and gone. He was hungry and looking forward to the barbeque. Monica knocked twice and came in, wearing old Nikes with no socks, a Joe's Crab Shack t-shirt and a pair of jogging pants. "You look nice," he said, but got a look back indicating he was nuts.

They could smell the food cooking about a half-mile away. John was practically drooling on his US Navy t-shirt. The night was shaping up to be gorgeous...clear skies, balmy air and the smell of honeysuckle mixed with grilling smoke...

John Byrnes was glad to see them. He wanted answers, though, before they concentrated on eating.

"It was Eastern, right? I remember those...grey and blue...Who's blood was on it?"

"It's going to be tested. No answers as of yet," Monica said, looking eagerly at the tables piled with food and the other people eating.

"Go, eat. The police should be out here later. I invited your friend, Corporal Mosby."

Twenty minutes later, their plates piled high with BBQ chicken, potato salad, baked beans, squash casserole and cornbread, Monica and John were elbow to elbow at a picnic table shoveling food in their mouths. Both decided to have iced tea but the beers were tempting. A little too tempting, but not for another night with that old plane shimmying overhead.

Mosby made his way to the table. He had a beer in one hand and a bowl of boiled shrimp in the other. "Wish we'd get those tests back. Everyone's been bugging me about that today," he said, starting to peel his first shrimp of the night.

"If we could find something, anything about where that old plane went down. It's unbelieveable there was no wreckage found," Monica mumbled around a mouthful of food. The table was littered with balled-up napkins.

"Does it seem to like it's trying to get our attention?" Mosby asked, thoughtfully looking at the suds in his beer bottle.

"Yeah, we've talked about that," John said, nudging Monica under the table. More people were showing up and they seemed to gravitate to John, Monica and Mosby. Mrs. Byrnes was handing out strawberry shortcake and took great pains to make sure all three of them got the largest servings.

"A real shame about all those poor souls. It happened so long ago, but not a day goes by where we all don't think about it," she said. "I never hear a plane go overhead without thinking it might come down, too."

The tiki torches sputtered as they finished the meal. John groaned and Monica rested her elbows on the table. "God, that was good," she sighed, picking at the last little pieces of chicken on her plate. John noticed she wasn't so pale anymore. There were still bags under them but her eyes were clearer than they had been for weeks. She was tanned and smiling and staring right at him.

"John, you look better than you have in a long time. I don't know how long it's been since I've seen you without some kind of scratch on your face," she said, wiping whipped cream off his nose with her napkin.

They both laughed at this. It almost felt like a vacation. The atmosphere was warm and loving and the total opposite of the sickness and death and loss both of them had endured in Washington. Scully needed some time like this and so did Skinner. He carried the unit's troubles like a heavy cross, sworn in his allegiance to Mulder's cause.

At about ten, the crowd began to thin out. John, Mosby and Byrnes were deep in conversation about deep sea fishing. Monica was right beside John, their shoulders almost touching. Her perfume lingered in the air. John wanted to touch her, to kiss her, but God, he was afraid. Not that she'd reject him, but that it would end like Mulder and Scully. There was no way either of them would survive something like that. They depended on each other too much. Reyes and Doggett just couldn't _stop_.

"I wish you could've seen this marlin. It grabbed the...line," Mosby said, suddenly breaking off and staring at the sky. John hadn't been paying much attention, but he snapped back when Mosby stopped talking. They all craned up as a deep thumping sound became audible in the distance, a very different sound than a jet or a modern small plane would make.

"Is it...?" John asked, standing up. The noise changed to a loud throbbing. Monica, Mosby and Byrnes all joined John, searching the sky. Monica made as if to say something when something landed on the lawn with a loud thump.

Then there was another. And another. Something rolled right to Monica's feet. It was an old cosmetics case, corroded almost beyond recognition. A suitcase crashed through someone's car windshield. An umbrella fell on the grill, combusting in a cloud of flying black fabric. An old picnic cooler landed in the middle of the baked beans with a splat.

"RUN!"

Byrnes and his wife ran for their porch, along with about ten other lingering party guests. Mosby crouched under a picnic table. There was a bulky black object that landed beside him, making a screeching sound. It was an accordion that settled to the ground with a defiant honking chord.

Monica jerked a gigantic picnic table umbrella off its fasteners and pulled John underneath. Car alarms started going off. There was a bag of golfclubs that broke an upstairs window, followed by a large black Samsonite that nearly took out the table Mosby was hiding under. Yelling echoed across the island as the storm of luggage dented cars, splashed into pools and knocked holes in roofs.

But suddenly as it started, it stopped, like a spigot turned off by a giant. Monica stuck her hand out like she was testing the rain and John carefully peeked out from under the umbrella. They saw Mosby run at top speed toward the porch, nearly tripping over the accordion that sat in a dusty, defeated heap.

"Wow," was all John could get out. A large dark shadow was passing overhead, sputtering, choking and throbbing. John could make out the three ridge tails and the irregular body shape that was the Constellation's trademark. "We've got to catch it now," he said firmly, dropping his grip on the umbrella and running towards the cemetary. Monica launched a second later. Mosby ran towards his Jeep and everyone else huddled on the porch started looking for lanterns and flashlights.

All John could hear was the sound of his feet crunching on the gravel and the low moan of the plane. Monica caught up with him, panting slightly. The engines seemed to stop. Their insistent sound was replaced with the rushing wind. The plane was gliding!

Car headlights lit everything up as the residents bounced over the rutted road. Everyone jumped out of their vehicles and looked around, trying to spot the shadow. John and Monica had stopped running. They watched and waited, straining to hear any noise that would be out of the ordinary...a loud splash, maybe?

But instead there came a muffled thump from somewhere deep in the thickets, followed by a brief flash.

"That's it, that's it," Monica said excitedly. Was John enjoying this? An X File with a cut and dry end? Could it ever really happen?

They all jumped into the tangles of brush, getting cut and stained on berry plants. Someone had a scythe. It was passed to John, who cut and whacked his way through the tall weeds. "We checked back here," said Byrnes. "I know we did." There was an acrid, burning smell in the air, mixing with the swamp gas. It seemed like a dream to John as the mist rolled back in. How long had they been walking? Monica waded through the cat-tails behind him, cussing softly every time one of the weeds whacked her in the face.

"John...stop," she suddenly commanded. John stopped swinging the scythe and motioned for everyone else to stop walking. The flashlights and lanterns swung around wildly. A glint of metal shone through the brush. They charged towards it. Water flew in every direction as the crowd moved through the ankle-deep sludge.

Ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet and John came to a screeching stop. Monica gasped at the sight.

The plane sat on its belly in a clearing as if it had been waiting for them all this time. It was broken in two like an egg, spilling a mess of corrorded wires out of its interior. It still encouraged all who gaped to "Fly Eastern Airlines".

"My God," said Byrnes. He was crying. Tears sparkled on other's faces in the glow of the flashlights. John needed to touch it, just to re-assure himself it was real.

"Fly Eastern Airlines," Monica mumbled. "They just wanted us to find them."

John waded through some unidentified muck towards the plane and grabbed a piece of the tail. It was in decent shape, considering the age of the wreck. The windows had mottled slightly, so he went to work prying off one of the intact cabin doors to see what was inside. Others joined him, pushing and tugging and rocking the broken plane. It was stuck fast, but John noticed a hole in the fuselage just large enough to wriggle through. Someone handed him a flashlight, and he slipped into the musty Connie like a mouse.

He was aware the floor could be flimsy. It was so dark in the plane and everything was jumbled-up and sharp edged. He sort of felt his way along, then he put his hand in something wet and cold. John closed his eyes and tried to keep from yelling. A check with the flashlight showed it was blood...lots of it...dripping from a jumble of seats. He began tossing them aside, feeling the fabric rip and disintegrate between his fingers.

"John?"

Monica was suddenly there, making him jump. She seemed to be meditating again. All she needed was a butterfly on her head.

"Help me, Mon."

They tore through the mass of seats, wires and other oddments. John's hand closed around something that felt like a Matchbox car. It was a small plastic airplane, like something they'd give kids to pacify them during flights. It was a miniature version of the plane they were on now. He pocketed it and kept sorting through all the stuff.

"Have you seen anyone?" Monica asked. It was odd that there were no bones or clothes inside the wreck. Just dust and blood. It covered both of them.

Suddenly, the plane creaked and they both stopped. People were shouting, their cries muffled by the skin of the airplane. The plane seemed to shift a little bit. John listened close to the yelling, trying to make out what the crowd was saying.

Quicksand!

The plane groaned and snapped. He grabbed Monica and shoved her rudely toward the hole in the fuselage. Things began to move inside the plane somehow, shuddering and snapping. John took one last desperate look around with the flashlight. For a moment he saw passengers reading magazines, dressed up, waiting for the return home or their vacation to start. He could even hear the healthy roar of the turbine engines, slicing away at the atmosphere.

"John!" Monica screamed, grabbing him as the Constellation started sinking. They tumbled out into the bog, being sucked at by the soft sand. Mosby and Captain Leonard from the fire department hauled them out, both sputtering and sneezing. They all joined the others on a small rise and watched the old plane give a final moan before collapsing into the ground, its frame cracking. It was swallowed into the sand.

Monica and John turned to face the crowd. They were thinking about government reports, the FAA and NTSB, the swamp being dredged to recover the old Connie. But as their flashlights swung among the crowd, John noticed bowed heads and lips muttering prayers. Mosby was crying now, sobbing softly into a handkerchief.

"I can't...' John sputtered, walking away. Moinica followed and put a warm hand on his shoulder.

"They don't want the government here, John."

He turned to look at her. Monica's cheek was bleeding slightly. "i don't even want us here. They're the ones that kept this alive all these years, after the families stopped coming and the whole thing was a distant memory for the government," she continued. John looked back toward the crowd and furrowed his brow. They were obligated to report this. But these people were crying for those passengers and the broken plane. It was a long chapter over for all of them.

"When I was on that plane, Mon, I can't explain it. I saw the passengers and the way the interior would've looked. Not the way it looked tonight. Maybe you're right. They wanted to end the agony all these people here endured thinking they didn't do enough that night to find the wreck."

Monica looked toward where the plane had been and back at John. "You're doing the right thing. It probably doesn't seem like it now," she said, smiling slightly. She took his hand in hers and they both walked back to the townspeople.

"We're gonna let you have this one. Let you rest in peace and them too," John said quietly. Monica squeezed his hand as the crowd rushed up to hug them.

**April 5, 2002**

Someone came out to the cemetary with a backhoe and carved an extra-large hole in the ground. Everyone, including Monica and John, worked all through the night to collect the luggage that had fallen from the plane. The bloody stewardess dress came over on the morning ferry after it was halted en route to the state medical examiner's office.

One by one, pickup trucks arrived at the cemetary. One by one, the jettisoned luggage was pitched into the hole. Captain Leonard, remembering his brother Latane who died the year before, dropped in the stewardess uniform on top of the pile. John Byrnes shoveled the first pile of dirt in the hole. The others started the grim work. Monica and John, bedraggled and covered with sand from the night before, picked up shovels and pitched in. The crowd was quiet until Mrs. Byrnes started to sing. Soon they were all singing as the sandy dirt spilled between the gaps and covered all that remained of Flight 2012.

_When I die,_

_Hallelujah by and by,_

_I'll fly away._

Monica was singing her heart out, stopping occasionally to look at the blisters forming on her hands. She smiled at him warmly.

So the Tin Man had a heart. He'd never really been one to stray from procedure. That was Monica's job.

_"John, you'll learn one way or another it all comes down to love. It always triumphs over everything."_

Scully told him that just after William was born. It was hard for him to understand the significance of her statement at the time. But feeling the little plastic plane in his pocket and watching everyone working so hard and seeing Monica smile made it a little more clear. Maybe things would work.

When they dragged back to the inn, they stopped at Monica's door.

"Well, no rest for the wicked," John smiled.

"Yeah, you're tired too," she said, fumbling in her pockets for the room key.

"Monica?"

"What?"

John embraced her. The warm wind blew all around them, ruffling Monica's hair. They held each other for a long time. He broke the hug, stepping back to look in her eyes. "We always seem to end up like this," he said, stating fact.

Monica didn't say anything. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and John couldn't read her expression. She kissed his cheek and disappeared into her room. Instead of instantly retreating to his, he stood there for a long time just listening to the waves, thinking about why we're fated to love certain people.

John had no idea the hardships that they'd endure were just beginning.

And it was often during those trying times, he'd think back to these few days...the cemetary, the barbeque, the plane's shadow as it blotted out the sky, the sound of the water...things that made it worthwhile to hang on, even if it was just for her sake. Sometimes he couldn't remember if the whole thing had really happened...

Except he'd see the yellow butterflies in his mind's eye, taking off, reaching for the sunset.

_**The End**_


End file.
